by Mary Daheim
“That’s right.” I relaxed a little. “Of course I’ll go over your copy. This is a huge story, and it has to be handled carefully. Ordinarily, I’d do it myself, but in effect, I’m recusing myself because of the angle about the buyout proposal.”
“Oh, yeah.” He’d taken a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and was chewing on it. “Gotcha. Touchy. Kid gloves, right?”
“Yes.” I leaned forward. “By the time the paper goes to press, a lot of things may’ve happened, including an arrest. You’ll be dealing primarily with Sheriff Dodge, who will tell you only what he thinks you ought to know. How have you gotten on with him so far?”
Curtis shrugged. “Okay. I haven’t seen him more than twice. He’s usually in his office when I stop by to check the log. I talk mostly with Lorna, the receptionist, or to one of the deputies.”
“Her name’s Lori,” I said, beginning to realize that Curtis seemed to have trouble remembering people’s names. “Lori Cobb. Be sure you take plenty of notes and use your recorder.”
“Sure. It’s a good one. I got it as a graduation present, a Sony ICD-MS515 Memory Stick Recorder.” He grinned at me. “This should be a kick.”
“A kick?” I was appalled. “Murder isn’t a cheap thrill. This isn’t TV, it’s real.”
Curtis shrugged again. “Sure—like reality TV. Hey,” he continued before I could say anything, “newspapers are part of the media, and the media is all about entertainment. The problem is, print journalists don’t get it. They’re still living in the past, where they were the big sources of information. Then we got the Information Age, one big explosion of ways to communicate instantly, and meanwhile, editors and publishers and reporters are still back in the Dark Ages. Who wants to wait to read the news? So what’s to do? Entertain, just like TV and movies and the rest of the media. How many of those handsome and beautiful people on TV have ever dug out a story on their own? The closest they come to real reporting is to stand in the middle of a hurricane and announce that it’s really wet and windy. Even a moron can figure that one out.”
“My, my,” I said dryly, “I don’t recall you giving me this philosophy when you interviewed for the job.”
“You didn’t ask.” Curtis leaned back in the armchair and stretched his legs. “Besides, I thought maybe you already knew all this.”
“You have some good points about the media,” I allowed, “but I believe in journalistic integrity, which means you can’t go off half-cocked and not take a story—any kind of hard news story—seriously. You also have to remember to treat your sources with tact and consideration. In a small town, reliable spokespersons are few and far between. Alienating any of them can dry up your sources forever. These people don’t tend to forgive and forget.”
“Small town, small minds,” Curtis said under his breath. “Okay, I get it. I’m off to see the sheriff. He is at work today, isn’t he?”
I shot Curtis a reproachful glance. “He was there a couple of hours ago, when I told him you’d stop in almost immediately.”
“Got it.” He popped out of the armchair and headed for the door.
For the rest of the day, I tried to shake off my misgivings. I even told myself that Milo and Curtis deserved each other. On the rare occasions when I’d allowed Scott Chamoud to deal with the sheriff, my former reporter’s good manners and amiable disposition had set well enough with all of the county’s law enforcement employees. Curtis Mayne was a different type—cocky and opinionated. But maybe that meant he was also determined and aggressive. Time would tell.
In the early evening, Vida called. “So you stayed on in Alpine,” she said in an approving voice. “I thought you might go to Seattle after all.”
I explained why I’d decided against the trip and concluded by saying that I’d assigned the story to Curtis.
Vida exploded in my ear. “Are you quite mad?” she shrieked. “He’s an infant! You’ve sent a boy to the mill!”
“I didn’t have much choice,” I argued. “I didn’t feel right about handling the coverage directly.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Vida seethed. “Then why didn’t you let me do it? My nephew Billy would have been anxious to help me with information.”
Bill Blatt was another of the sheriff’s deputies and one of Vida’s primary information sources. Over the years the poor guy had sometimes divulged tidbits he should have kept under wraps, but his aunt had her ways of making even the most reluctant informant talk.
“I can’t ask you to sacrifice your own page for hard news,” I said, never wanting to even hint that Vida’s florid writing style was acceptable only for the House & Home readers—of which there were many in Alpine.
“Piffle,” she said, dropping her voice a notch. “You know I can do both.”
“Curtis has to learn the ropes,” I pointed out. “He was hired as a reporter, and that’s what he’s going to do—report. I waited too long to give Scott his head on big stories.”
“Perhaps,” Vida allowed, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“You will,” I said, “help him with your encyclopedic knowledge of Alpine, won’t you?”
“Goodness,” Vida replied airily, “I don’t see how I can possibly offer any information in this instance. The victim had nothing to do with Alpine except for arriving here two days ago.”
“Vida…” I was coaxing her, playing the game like a good sport.
“If Curtis needs my help, he can ask for it,” she retorted. “I’m not one to meddle or give unsolicited advice.”
“Of course you aren’t.” Of course you are, I thought but knew better than to say so. “I’d appreciate it. If Curtis asks.”
“Very green,” she remarked. “Twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four in August,” I said. “I think.”
There was a brief pause at the other end. “I stopped by this afternoon to see the Harrises at the motel,” Vida said.
I wasn’t surprised that Vida had gone to the Tall Timber. “What did Minnie and Mel have to say about their departed guest?”
“Dylan Platte was just over average height, curly brown hair, mid-thirties—thirty-five, to be exact—according to his California driver’s license. He was casually dressed, though Minnie thought his watch was quite expensive.” Vida’s voice had lost its edge as she rattled off the data she’d collected. “He was courteous but not friendly. No time for chitchat. Sometimes Minnie’s rather snoopy about guests, even though that’s most unwise in the motel industry. Not that I blame her.”
“Of course not.”
“Dylan had arrived shortly after the lunch hour Thursday,” Vida continued. “He was gone for part of the afternoon, returned to the motel—Mel saw his rental car in the parking lot—and then went out again. The Harrises like to play a little game about their guests. They call it ‘Guest Guessing,’ and when they don’t know why someone is visiting in Alpine, if they find out later, whichever of them has come closest to the real reason puts a dollar in a coffee can toward their own vacation.”
“Cute.” I failed at sounding enthusiastic. “So did they guess?”
“Guess what?”
“Why Dylan had come to Alpine.”
“Certainly not,” Vida huffed. “They’re not ghouls. Mel and Minnie would never guess that someone visited here in order to be murdered.”
“I meant to look at Ed’s house.”
“Oh. Not precisely. Mel thought Dylan might be one of those California land speculators,” Vida said. “It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve come sniffing around here to buy up property at absurdly low prices because they think small town people are stupid.”
“So,” I asked, “when did Dylan tell them why he was here?”
“He didn’t,” Vida replied. “They never talked to him after he arrived. Not that it’s unusual, especially this time of year, with the travel business being in high gear and two motels to keep up.”
“Where had he rented his car?” I asked.
“The airport, I as
sume,” Vida said. “Sea-Tac. Minnie and Mel didn’t know, and when I asked Billy about it, he pretended he hadn’t found out. I do hate it when he tries to put me off with very transparent excuses. Surely he understands I have no intention of making him look untrustworthy or indiscreet.”
“Did Bill say it was strange that no one heard the shot that killed Dylan?”
“I didn’t ask him about that,” Vida admitted. “If Dylan was killed yesterday afternoon and his unit was at the end of the building, I’m not surprised. Front Street is rather noisy that far to the east. So many businesses surrounding the Tall Timber, what with the mill, the railroad tracks, the truckers, and often as not, especially with school out, teenagers racing up and down Front and the Icicle Creek Road. I’ve never understood why the original motel owners built there in the first place.”
“It’s close to everything,” I pointed out, not wanting to say to Vida that, being so small, Alpine didn’t offer many secluded and convenient sites for hostelries, with the possible exception of the venerable ski lodge founded by her father-in-law.
“Speaking of property,” Vida said, “with all this murder business going on, I forgot to mention what Ella told me after I got back to her apartment to finish dinner. Sorting through her muddleheaded chatter, I learned that the owner of Pines Villa wants to eliminate the mixed usage concept and turn it all into condos, like Parc Pines. There’s room enough to build on that vacant lot at the corner of Alpine Way and Tonga Road. We must run a story about that.”
“Yes,” I agreed, making a note on the pad I kept by the phone. “Who owns it now?”
“A woman who lives in Everett,” Vida replied. “Ella couldn’t think of her name. Indeed, it’s a marvel Ella can remember her own name these days. You recall that the apartments have changed hands more than once in the ten or twelve years since they were built.”
I vaguely remembered running the stories on the sales. “The courthouse will have a record of ownership,” I said and then tossed Vida a bone: “Do you want to check it out Monday?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Frankly, I think more condos are a ridiculous idea in Alpine. We don’t need them.”
I didn’t argue. Alpine had single dwellings, apartments, duplexes, college dorms, a retirement facility, and a trailer park. Prices were much cheaper than in the more populous cities, and there was still plenty of room to build. Even though the number of residents had grown to almost seven thousand countywide, hordes of newcomers weren’t beating a retreat to our mountain aerie.
After I finished talking to Vida, I checked in with Curtis. This time he answered almost immediately.
“Anything new?” I asked, hearing music in the background.
“New? Or news?” Curtis laughed and said something I couldn’t catch.
“The sheriff,” I said, hearing girlish laughter at the other end. “Are there any new developments in the case?”
“C’mon down,” Curtis responded. “I’ll tell you all about it. There’s an empty bar stool here at Mugs Ahoy. You can meet Cammie. She’s new in town.” He turned away from the phone, but this time I could hear his words. “Hey, hottie, want to talk to my boss?”
Cammie screeched and then giggled.
“Curtis!” I barked as the music grew louder and was joined by somebody singing off-key to James Brown’s “Good Good Lovin’.” “Go outside! I can hardly hear you!”
“I can’t hear you, Boss,” Curtis shouted into my ear. “I’ll call you back in a nano.”
I waited. And waited. My home phone didn’t ring; my cell remained silent. After fifteen minutes, I was really mad. Curtis was off to a wretched start. I debated with myself about going to Mugs Ahoy but thought that might cause some kind of embarrassing scene. Instead, I dialed Milo’s number at home.
“Okay,” I said after he answered, still sounding grumpy, “I’m an idiot. Has Curtis screwed up at your end as well as at mine?”
“Curtis?” Milo paused. “Oh—the new kid you hired? No. Why?”
“Did he interview you this afternoon?”
“He stopped by around two or so,” Milo replied. “He asked if there was anything new going on with the Platte homicide, and I told him not yet, so he left. That was fine with me.”
I frowned, questioning my judgment about what I’d perceived as my new reporter’s aggressiveness. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound casual. “This is his first big assignment. I’m monitoring his progress.”
“What’s the rush?” Milo asked. “You’ve got plenty of time to get a story in the Wednesday paper.”
Like many other readers, the sheriff didn’t seem to understand the process of news gathering. Get facts, type them up, print in newspaper. Their concept was as simple as that, with no need for background information, dealing with uncooperative or deceptive sources, or trying to find the unvarnished truth rather than glib whitewash.
“I want Curtis to get a head start,” I said, using an explanation that even Milo could understand. “He’s new to the business. I assume you still don’t have any fresh information?”
“Nope. That’s why I’m not at work.” He yawned loudly enough that I could hear him at my end. “Just watching Band of Brothers. Again.”
“Good series,” I said and quickly moved on. “Have you found out anything on the bracelet and note I got in the mail?”
“Nope,” Milo repeated. “That has to go to the lab in Everett. You know we can’t afford expensive equipment here in SkyCo.”
I wasn’t surprised that our county lab’s expertise couldn’t handle the job. I changed the subject. “What about Dylan’s wife, Kelsey? Have you talked to her?”
“Not since she got here,” Milo replied.
I stifled the urge to scream at the sheriff. “Kelsey’s in Alpine?” I finally said, keeping my voice down.
“She got here late this afternoon,” Milo said. “She’s at the ski lodge. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
“Is Graham Cavanaugh coming, too?” I asked.
“Graham? Oh—the brother. I don’t know. I’ll find out when I see Mrs. Platte.” Milo yawned again.
“Okay.” I still managed to sound unruffled. “Thanks.”
Milo hung up. I sat on the sofa with the receiver in my hand and considered my next move. I didn’t want to meet Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte. It was bound to be an emotional roller coaster—for both of us. The grieving widow, the orphaned daughter—and the woman who almost married her father.
But I couldn’t avoid Kelsey. I finally put the handset back in its base, grabbed my purse, pulled on my linen summer jacket, and drove to the ski lodge to face a stranger who had nearly become the daughter I’d never had.
SIX
HENRY BARDEEN, THE MANAGER OF THE SKI LODGE, WAS IN the lobby by the dining room entrance, talking to Mayor Fuzzy Baugh and his wife, Irene. Judging from the furtive look Henry gave me, I figured they were talking about me.
“Emma,” Henry said, putting out a hand. “You haven’t graced us with your presence lately. How are you?”
“My social life’s a bit dull,” I said, nodding at the Baughs.
Irene, a tall, still handsome woman in her seventies, smiled. “We were just leaving. It’s lovely to see you, Emma. It’s a shame you don’t golf. We could use some fresh blood at the country club.”
“Yes,” I said, sufficiently tactful not to mention that the clubhouse was an army surplus Quonset hut left over from World War Two and the food came out of a vending machine. “I’m not very athletic.”
“Neither are the rest of us,” Irene said graciously. “So nice to see you. Come, Fuzzy, we must get home in time to feed Huey.”
Huey was a bull terrier, named for Huey Long in honor of the Baughs’ Louisiana roots.
Fuzzy, as ever, was subdued in his wife’s presence. “My, yes, sugar,” the mayor said to his wife. “Wonderful repast, Henry. Good night, Emma.”
Henry turned to me as soon as the Baughs walked away. “Are you here for dinner?”
“No,” I replied. “I ate earlier at home. I’m calling on one of your guests, a Mrs. Platte.”
A hint of color crept onto Henry’s usually pale face. “You mean…” He’d lowered his voice and was glancing around the lobby. A young couple occupied the Adirondack chairs by the fireplace, but they weren’t in hearing range. “…The woman whose husband was killed yesterday?”
I nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
“She asked not to be disturbed,” Henry said, barely above a whisper. His usual self-effacing manner was far different from that of his brother, Buck, an intrepid retired air force colonel who had been Vida’s social companion for several years. “Mrs. Platte seems very distraught,” Henry murmured.
“Did she come alone?” I inquired, wondering where Kelsey’s brother, Graham, fit in this mix.
“Yes, very brave of her,” Henry replied. “Heather offered to keep her company, but Mrs. Platte insisted that she preferred to be alone.”
Heather Bardeen Bavich was Henry’s daughter, who worked as her father’s assistant. She had been married for several years and had a small child but still put in long hours at the lodge.
I hesitated, trying to figure out what was the best approach to take with Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte. I couldn’t shirk my professional responsibilities because of personal concerns. And I was curious.
“Henry,” I said, speaking almost as softly as he had, “this young woman is Tom Cavanaugh’s daughter. I feel I have some kind of obligation to see her.”
Henry looked stricken. “Oh! Emma, I…” Any color he’d had in his face drained away. “I didn’t know…. You mean…What was her husband doing here?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, realizing that neither Milo nor Spencer had leaked the reason for Dylan’s presence in Alpine. I hated having to be grateful to them, but they had a thank-you coming. “I’ve never formally met Kelsey,” I admitted, “but I can’t pretend I don’t know who she is.”
Henry looked thoughtful. “I could send her a note. Or you could.”
“Well…” I was afraid Kelsey would refuse to see me, no matter how tactfully Henry or I composed the missive. “Would it upset you if I went to her room and explained who I am?”
